by Gavin Chait
The shed door widens, sagging back until it rests against a chair. Three men stumble inside, sweaty and exhausted.
‘Where’s Mohamoud? And our food? Your packs are empty?’ Duruji’s voice rising in anger.
They respond by shaking their heads, their breathing in short panting gasps, their throats dry.
‘We tried, boss,’ says the thinnest of the three, collapsing on to a chair. ‘It didn’t work.’
‘What didn’t work?’
‘The cards,’ he says, taking a handful out from inside his djellaba.
Duruji stands, his blocky body filling the tiny space. The three men cower.
‘All you had to do was take the cards to the market and buy what we need. How could it not work?’
‘I don’t know, boss. Mohamoud went in with one of the cards while we stood watch across the street. He was only gone a few minutes, and then we heard shouting and those private guards were running in. They dragged him out into the street and began beating him.’
‘And you ran, like cowards?’
‘No, Duruji,’ says another of the men. ‘We wanted to help, but Mohamoud called to us. He pointed to us, and then everyone was attacking us too. We don’t have weapons, so we ran.
‘We stopped at a smaller shop where it was quieter. I tried this card,’ holding up one, its clear plastic coruscating with seemingly random patterns and colours. ‘The shop owner shook his head. We tried to rob him, but he pointed out the window where the guards were coming. We had no choice but to run.’
‘Duruji, we do not understand this place. Please, we must find somewhere else,’ says the first.
‘We stole those cards only yesterday. All you have to do is touch that reader and it pays. No one looks at the card. How can it not work?’
‘We don’t—’
The light is blocked at the doorway, and an unconscious body is thrown to the floor.
‘Because you are fools,’ says a guttural voice in heavily accented French.
There is a moment to realize that the body is that of the man who was supposed to be on watch outside.
Duruji and his men leap for their weapons, and stop.
The white man with the shaven scalp at the door is making a small shaking motion with his head. His strange-looking machine pistol is still. Two other men stand to either side behind him.
Duruji glares at them and takes a careful step, planting himself in the centre of the room in front of his men.
The white man ignores him, picking up one of the cards from the floor. ‘They’re biomimetic. They can only work with the person they belong to. Easy to replace if lost or –’ he sneers at them ‘– stolen.’
He drops the card to the floor, ambling further into the room, looking with distaste at their living arrangements, pausing as he considers Khalil curled on the floor.
‘All the payment terminals are linked to the same network. If you use a card that isn’t yours, it can call the guards. You’d be better off taking what you need rather than pilfering these silly things.
‘You’d have as much luck with our guns,’ flinging his machine pistol at Duruji, who snatches it and immediately tries to fire. A crackle of electrical discharge, the smell of burning skin, and he flings it to the ground.
Duruji grinds his teeth in unconcealed fury. ‘What is this to you?’ he spits, rubbing at the pain in his hands.
‘Us?’ asks the white man, calmly retrieving his weapon. ‘We offer you a message, and an opportunity.’ He nods at one of the men still guarding the door, who clips his gun into a bracket on his chest and steps forward to hand over a small console.
The white man motions at the screen and sets it on the table.
A voice speaks, strident and familiar. The refugees of Ansar Dine are jolted, propelled to see the image shining on the table. Even Khalil drags himself over, his eyes alert.
Abdallah Ag Ghaly is seated at a plain white table, a clean white wall behind him. He is dressed in the yellow overalls of a prisoner. He leans forward, into the screen.
‘The crusaders have underestimated our resilience. Your resilience. Join me, my brothers, and we will restore the ummah and retake our lands. Trust these men. Go with them. They will show you the way.’
The screen goes dark.
‘What is this?’ asks Duruji, looking sceptical.
‘We have been sent to fetch you,’ says the white man.
‘Who sent you? Who are you?’
The white man picks up the console, looks for a moment at the blank face, and slips it into a pocket of his jacket. ‘Let us say that our employer shares certain interests with your leader. It would be to each of our benefits if Abdallah Ag Ghaly were returned to power.
‘Your men lack organization or coordination. Like those fools in Dakar who thought they could take on drones with obsolete toy pistols,’ contemptuous as he stares at their AK-47s.
‘Nothing is without price,’ says Duruji. ‘What is it you want from our Janab?’
‘In exchange for supporting your return to power? We want you to destroy the solar farms in the desert.’
Duruji laughs, a visceral, self-aware cackle. ‘We know your business. You wish to stop that other toubab from destroying your control with the infidels? What if we take your help and then sell the energy anyway?’
The white man smiles, unsettling and insane. ‘It does not matter if you try. You will not cross the ocean, and the Europeans would never buy from you. Even so, the machines will not last more than a few months in the hands of you obezyany. Your control of the fields serves us well enough.’
Duruji considers, his men silent in the shadows waiting for his lead.
‘What happens if we agree?’
‘We have a truck waiting outside. It will take you to our safe-houses in Dakar. We have food, clothes and weapons. We are collecting as many of you as we can find. If you know of any others we can contact, you will tell us,’ he says.
Duruji looks at the guns pointed at him. ‘Do we have a choice?’
The white man looks surprised. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘There is always a choice. We can leave you here and either you starve, or the guards find you and beat you to death.’
The white man turns and walks towards the door, his two men immediately going out ahead of him. As he steps outside he turns, the air shimmering and filled with gargantuan shapes on the horizon behind him, ‘Are you coming?’
30
Beneath the clear waters of Ramsey Sound, off the rocky coast of St Davids in Wales, are a set of jagged shards. The changing tide squeezes the ocean through the sound, piling up around Ramsey Island and dropping as much as one and a half metres at the full reach of the tide. Glass-still standing waves form here, across the drop, and then churn as the depth of the bed rises towards the stone spire of Horse Rock.
These are the Bitches, and they are treacherous.
They are also tremendously entertaining.
Shakiso’s howl of delight is all but smothered beneath the roar and spray. She spins backwards on her kayak, rolling under the wave, then righting herself. Simon sweeps past her on the peak, flinging himself into the air, somersaulting and pirouetting back into the wave.
‘Dammit!’ he shouts.
‘What?’ she screams back.
‘I’m still blushing!’
‘What?’
‘I’m still blushing!’
‘Woohoo!’ shaking with laughter.
-
Summer has flown past, and Wales is heading into the long dark of winter. Tourists have abandoned the Pembrokeshire coast, and today Simon and Shakiso have the area to themselves.
They have spent the last week paddling along the shoreline, camping on the beach or sleeping in nearby villages. Tuft is staying with friends in London, sulking under her blanket as they left.
Late yesterday afternoon, they had beached in a beautiful cove near Porthlysgi Bay. According to their map, there was a seasonal campsite where they could avail themselves of much-n
eeded hot showers.
Beneath a row of trees were a short line of three tiny private rooms. Each was really no more than two sides of corrugated iron leaned against each other and sealed with doors and windows. Two of them featured late-season tourists parked outside, but the last was open, and empty.
‘It looks so warm,’ said Shakiso, shivering. ‘And I bet we can make a sex in there.’
‘We have a lovely tent.’
‘In which we almost froze last night. Go on, we can only ask. I’ll make it worth your while,’ she grinned.
They eventually dredged up the owner from his house, hidden almost a mile from the beach on the farm road leading to town.
‘It be twenty pounds per night for each of you for camping,’ he said, in tones that conveyed his utter disgust with the whole enterprise of tourism. ‘And be sure to get what you need from town before six. I lock the gate, and there is no way to get in or out after that.’
‘It’s almost six now,’ said Simon. ‘I see one of the rooms is still free. Do you think we might have it for the night?’
He glared at them.
‘No, it is taken,’ he said, with great finality. ‘Now, if you will leave me be, it is six, and I must go see to locking the gate.’
They watched, only slightly astounded, as he brushed past them, walked across his yard and wrapped an elaborate chain and padlock around the gate.
They walked quietly back to the campsite. Shakiso’s teeth chattered loudly, and she divided her sidelong glances between Simon and the direction of the vacant room.
‘I’m sure he won’t notice if we just borrow it for a little while?’ she said, plaintively.
‘We should pitch anyway,’ he said.
‘But I’m cold.’
‘I know a way to make you much warmer,’ he said, pulling her close and kissing her. She laughed and nestled into him.
They pulled their kayaks up the beach and on to a flat stretch of grass. There was a small patch shielded from the wind by an overgrown embankment.
Simon pulled their bags out of the kayak bulkheads. He dug through them until he found the tent, staking down the corners and releasing the self-tensioning mechanism which torqued the aluminium poles into position.
Shakiso quickly threw in blankets and provisions and disappeared inside, returning with a towel and change of clothes.
‘That shower better be worth it,’ she said, heading back up the hill.
An old stone outhouse had been converted into a cooking area and changing rooms. In the summer, this would be filled with laughter and stories. This close to winter, it seemed lonely and damp.
Shakiso dropped her clothes and cranked open the taps to their hottest point. Steam clogged the mirrors and condensed against the walls.
She was just thawing when the shower door opened.
‘I heard someone needed their back washed,’ said Simon, wrapping himself around her.
‘Aaargh, you’re freezing!’ she shrieked, to laughter.
Later, after a somewhat disappointing dinner – ‘Yeah, I think I might have dropped the tomatoes overboard’ – they walked around the inside of the farm, along the fence.
‘It’s mighty definite, this fence,’ she said.
‘Indeed. One might almost think he had something precious worth keeping.’
‘Or some great enemy to keep out?’
‘That is more troubling,’ agreed Simon.
‘Do you think it may be the souls of all those who froze to death after being denied a lifesaving night in that last cottage?’ she asked.
‘It’s not a cottage, darling. It looks more like he’s found a use for some old pig shelters.’
‘But they look so warm,’ she said, her teeth chattering loudly once more.
‘I tell you what,’ he said, ‘once everyone else is fast asleep, if it is still free, we can go borrow it.’
‘Yes,’ she said, clenching a fist and waving it at him.
It turned out there was not long to wait. As they drew near the rooms, they could see that the remaining couples had already turned in, and contented snores quavered in the evening air.
‘Ah,’ said Simon. ‘An interesting alternative. Freezing or snoring.’
‘You weren’t intending on sleeping, were you?’ laughed Shakiso.
They left all but the clothes they were wearing in their tent and snuck back up to the room in darkness, like two thieves to the scene of a crime.
The door was unlocked, and Shakiso giggled as she slipped inside.
There was a tiny space in front of the bed, and the bed itself took up the rest of the room.
‘I’m not convinced our tent isn’t larger,’ whispered Simon.
‘It’s warm,’ whispered Shakiso, throwing off her clothes and flinging herself on to the covers. ‘Come here. I have something to show you.’
Simon leaned an arm on the ceiling immediately above him, resting his head on it, staring at Shakiso. The moon was bright on the water, casting her skin in a blue and white glow.
‘You are the most beautiful creature,’ he said.
He found her clitoris with his tongue and she gasped, her fingers tightening against his head, pulling him firmly into her. Warmth rose through her body, reaching her face and hands.
‘Aargh,’ he said, indistinctly. ‘Can’t breathe,’ pulling back. ‘And a hair,’ extracting it from his mouth.
‘Don’t stop,’ she begged, giggling. ‘That was very nice.’
‘Nice, darling? Ice cream is nice—’
She squirmed underneath him, pulling him on top of her.
‘Ooh, that’s nice.’
Giggling, tumbling amongst the blankets, laughing.
‘Ouch, I think that’s your elbow.’
‘Something’s in my hair?’
Becoming more breathless.
She rose on top of him, pushing against him inside her.
He felt sweat on her lower back, behind her knees.
Gasping, her mouth wide, frenetic, then slowing, stopping.
A tiny squeak of delight.
He held her until the wave passed.
Only then did he relax and follow her orgasm with his own.
‘My gorgeous,’ she said.
‘Darling.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And you.’
She collapsed into his shoulder, cuddling up against his chest, both still breathing in deep, shaky gulps.
‘What colour?’ she asked.
‘Blue.’
‘Boring,’ she giggled. ‘Mine was the colour of sunlight reflecting on the ocean. When it’s still streaky from sunrise.’
Silence, only their breathing in the confines of the hut.
He leaned on his left elbow, looking down at her, stroked her face.
He nodded, grinning.
‘Have I told you?’
‘No, you haven’t,’ she said.
‘I love you.’
‘I love you more,’ she said, laughing.
They held each other, their hearts harmonizing, and drifted into sleep.
At two a.m. – and Simon was quite sure it was two a.m., for he was certain that little about what happened next would not be scarred forever into his memory – a set of headlights shone across the room. A groan from outside as a car door opened and someone struggled to wake.
Simon was out of bed in a moment, scrambling in the debris for his clothes. He found shirt and trousers and was fumbling for the rest.
Shakiso was staring blearily at him.
‘What?’ Receiving a bundle of her clothes full in the face.
‘Run,’ he hinted.
As he heard a crunch from a footstep outside the door, Simon flung it open.
‘They haven’t put you in this room as well, have they?’ he asked, his voice confident and filled with warm authority.
The young man was barely awake; his arms overflowed with blankets, clothing and equipment. In the light from the car interior, his partner was struggling with an
inappropriately oversized suitcase. She looked unhappy with the journey and with being woken up.
‘I shall lodge a firm complaint at once,’ said Simon, and strode out of the hut, Shakiso directly behind him.
They walked boldly into the darkness, the couple staring bewildered and confused after them.
As soon as they could no longer be seen, Shakiso and Simon sprinted for their tent.
With first light, before the sun had even dared raise itself to the horizon, they collapsed the tent, packed and were on the water.
A few hours later, they caught the tide dropping over the Bitches.
-
‘I blame you,’ he shouts.
‘Woohoo,’ she shrieks, laughing.
‘I lost my favourite red underpants,’ he shouts.
‘I hated those,’ she shouts back.
They drop off the standing waves and paddle up the coast. They are in no hurry, enjoying the ocean and each other. If they can, they will camp in Abereiddy or Porthgain.
As they pass the northern reach of Ramsey Island, Shakiso glances to her left.
‘What’s that?’ she asks, pointing out to the horizon.
Simon taps a sequence on the implant in his left earlobe, zooming in on the horizon.
‘It’s an old supply tug,’ he says.
He can just see a threadbare flag at the forecastle, and paint peeling off its name and registration number. Prince Oisoyame. It is listing to its port side, trailing a thin slick behind it.
‘Those aren’t allowed in these waters,’ searching for a match.
Shakiso feels a curious tension in her gut.
‘We’re inside the Perimeter, aren’t we? How come it hasn’t been spotted?’ referring to the radar system monitoring the whole of mainland England.
‘Not until they cross in line with that headland. Got it, it’s Nigerian. Left Lagos about a month ago.’
Now he can make out the main deck, behind the bridge.
‘It’s packed with people?’ he says, in disbelief and confusion.
‘They’re seekers. They found a way round the blockade,’ he shouts.
‘They’ll need help,’ says Shakiso, tapping at her ear. ‘Can you get a freight drone to our stores in Crawley?’
‘Sure.’
‘Good. I think Elias is still running our depot there. I’ll see if he’s able to arrange something.’